“We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone.
Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.”
- Orson Welles
A cherry blossom floated in the air, spiralling down towards the girl’s outstretched hand. She was beautiful; her dark brunette locks glimmered in the sunlight and her brown eyes twinkled with happiness. She examined the cherry blossom in her palm, thinking that it was the most perfect thing that she had ever seen.
“Mia, can you hand me that rake please?”
The girl, Mia, snapped out of her dream like state and flounced over to the rake. Grabbing it, she glided over to where her mother stood.
“Thank you, dear.”
Her mother began to gather the stray fallen leaves into a pile. Mia bent down and picked up the pink watering can. Then, she tended to the vast array of roses that were growing up against the white picket fence.
“It’s looking good, girls.” A tall, smiling man came out of the sliding doors that led into the front garden. Holding a jug of fresh lemonade and some glasses, he admired the view, his warm eyes twinkling just like his daughters.
“Well, I should hope so. We’ve been working for ages out here. Haven’t we Mia?”
“Yes. My back is killing me,” Mia groaned, touching her back for emphasis.
Her father chuckled, “Wait until you’re my age, girl. Then you can complain.”
“OK, I think-” her mother propped up the rake against the wall and surveyed their work, “that’s it.”
“Finally!” Mia sighed. She collapsed to the grass and sprawled out. “Please, never ask me to do that ever again.”
Her parents laughed as her father poured a glass of lemonade and handed it to her mother.
“Mmm, this is great, darling!” her mother exclaimed, savouring the taste in her mouth.
“Don’t act so surprised. I have mad culinary skills,” her father replied, with a grin.
“Ugh dad, please stop trying to act young,” Mia muttered, her face turning red.
Her father wrinkled his nose, “What?! You think I’m not youn-”
He was interrupted as a small, red headed boy raced out of the house, knocking into him. The jug of lemonade crashed to the patio, glass flying everywhere.
“Sorry! Sorry!” the boy squealed, guilt clear on his face.
“It’s fine dear, it was an accident,’ his mother soothed, stroking his hair.
“Mother, seriously? You’re going to let him get away with that? How many times have you told him not to run in the house?” Mia was sitting up now, glaring at her brother.
“It was an accident,” her mother repeated, guiding the boy back into the house by his shoulders.
When they were gone, Mia looked reproachfully at her father.
“Hun, it doesn’t mean anything,” her father tried to reason with her.
“But he never gets into trouble! Only I do! Do you guys love him more than me?” Mia asked, frustrated with everyone.
“We love you both equally. You’re imagining things,” her father reassured. “I’m going in, you coming?”
“No, I’m going to stay out here a while longer.”
When her father had left, she whispered, “All by myself.”
She lay back down and stayed there for a while longer. In all that time, she never realised that she was being watched. Three pairs of eyes in the shadows observed her, waiting.
Waiting for the perfect opportunity.
